


Here hung those lips that I have kissed

by HoloXam



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Character Study, Conversations with a human skull, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Episode Related, M/M, Pre Episode 92: Nothing Beside Remains, Recreational Drug Use, mentions of canon-typical pipe-murder, you know Elias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22407328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoloXam/pseuds/HoloXam
Summary: In front of Elias, on a small coffee table, sits a grinning human skull.
Relationships: Jonah Magnus/Barnabas Bennett
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	Here hung those lips that I have kissed

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers! S4 spoilers! Hello!

Elias's office is not large, but it is spacious enough to accommodate more than the bare necessities of mahogany desk, shelves and filing cabinets. In a nook under the window, there's an old, victorian sofa, which has been in the institute almost as long as the institute has been in London. It is not comfortable by Ikea standards, it is firm and narrow and almost too posh-looking for people to dare sit on it.

Elias adores it. 

This is where he sits now, curled up on a Thursday night, oxfords and blazer and tie discarded on the rug, the door firmly locked. A warm breeze of spring air is coming in through the open window, and the street outside is quiet. 

In front of Elias, on a small coffee table, sits a grinning human skull. 

Elias keeps his eyes on the yellowed skull as his fingers carefully mix together tobacco and Moroccan hash, feeling somewhere between silly and affectionate. He will allow himself this, tonight, will allow himself a little bit of reminiscing, because it has been a rather long day. 

It has been a long day, and it has been a long few months, in all honesty, with the way the entire institute feels different when the Archivist isn't in, even if Elias knows exactly where to find him. 

The institute feels different, the same way _everything_ feels different these days. 

There's just something _about_ Jonathan Sims that unhinges Elias completely—there have been archivists and there have been _Archivists_ , and there have even been Archivists that Elias—not Elias, not then—had more lingering affections for, but none of them have managed to strike that chord of feral delight that resonates through Elias with every step Jon takes towards completion. A ringing in his bones that brings with it an urgency that Elias hasn't felt in decades, a need to act, and in turn actions that are nothing but foreign to his being. 

(He doesn't regret the incident with Leitner for a second, but every time he remembers the blood, his stomach churns. (The incident with Gertrude was a necessity, but clean. Leitner's only-just timely end—not so much.))

When Leitner had been solidly taken out of the picture and Elias had returned to his office to wash off the worst of the blood, he had seen himself in the mirror: hair standing up, his face spotted with red splashes, his eyes _glowing_ in the lamp light. And he'd thought, _use a gun next time,_ and, _bloody animalistic,_ and, _didn't know you had it in you to get involved like this, Jonah._

He had watched Jon flee the scene and smiled.

Elias transfers the mix into a rolling paper, careful not to spill any of the mix on the floor. He wets his thumbs and index fingers slightly so the paper will catch, and with practiced motions he rolls up the joint, licking the glue in one fluid motion before blowing softly on it and closing the paper.

Then he reaches out and pulls the skull into his lap. 

“It's not an opium pipe, Barney, but I thought you'd appreciate it nonetheless,” Elias says to the skull, cradling the bone with his slacks-clad thighs as he lights the joint. He breathes in deep, feeling the burn of the smoke down to the base of his lungs. His left hand settles on the top of the skull, fingers stroking gently over the swell of the frontal bone. 

Somewhere in the institute, a radio turns on. Elias doesn't bother with knowing who pressed its buttons, but he focuses on the sound echoing down the hallway, an aching string quartet giving it all they've got on BBC 3. 

Elias slides lower on the sofa, and places the skull on top of his navel. He looks into the empty sockets, trying to recall the colour of the lively eyes that once filled them and which in turn had filled Elias—no, not Elias, not then—with such strange joy and affection. Brown? Elias thinks those eyes were brown. But it has been so long. 

He runs a digit down the cheekbone, and blows a gentle cloud of smoke into the skull's face. 

“Should I have buried you in the ground, darling?” he asks, almost— _almost_ —expecting a reply. 

Somewhere in the institute, a cello cries through plastic speakers, and Elias feels something soft yet pointy in his chest, an ache that has nothing to do with the soft swirl of cannabinol in his bloodstream. 

“Mhm. Thought not. Old Mordechai may have claimed your life, but, your bones—well. You would be just as alone in the dirt as in the filing cabinet, and—” 

The skull doesn't make to reply, and Elias trails off. He leans his head back, sucking in another lungful of smoke. He did choose to leave him in that place. He killed him with inaction, and he walked across that empty beach with sorrow in his heart and a skull in his arms. 

Elias cranes his head back and stares at the ceiling. He blinks, and runs his thumb across the nasal bone of the skull. He blinks again. 

“Ah, but you will be pleased to hear that I have had to take action in my old age,” he says, cursing himself for the breathiness his voice takes on. “And, after all, everything I did, I did because I wanted to, and your sacrifice played no small part in honing that resolve.” 

Elias looks back at the skull. The teeth are well-kept, and Elias clicks a manicured nail against a front tooth. The cello is joined by the violins and the viola, working up a crescendo towards the finale. 

“How many times did I kiss you in that ratty Edinburgh flat? More than I can count, surely. I can't remember your eyes, Barney, but I do remember the feeling of those teeth of yours, and the way we were out of our minds with those drugs you could walk in and buy in the shops for next to nothing—” 

Elias looks at the joint that has burned out in his hand, and sighs. The violins compete for dominance, and Elias's blood runs hot with the sound reverberating in his mind. Faster and faster towards the end, a painful melancholy turning desperate, as if they're running for a finish line. Elias closes his eyes and plants a kiss on the skull's frontal bone. The bone is dry and sucks some moisture from his lips, an unpleasant sensation. 

“Poor Barney,” Elias whispers, breath ghosting over the bone. “But had you not found yourself in that awful place, you would still be buried in the ground by now. Once again, I will leave you to your own devices. Your final role will be that of an example, and you will do excellent, I have no doubt.”

The music ends on a long, deep note from the cello. There's a moment in which the institute is completely silent save for radio static, before the audience applauds and the host starts speaking over the recording. Elias lets the radio go, and sits in silence, fingers stroking continuously over bone.

Then he re-lights the rest of the joint, and extends his mind elsewhere. What he sees is pleasing, and Elias smiles. 

Tomorrow, the Archivist will come home. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr & twitter as holoxam :)


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